


Within the Reach of Light

by sarangx



Category: VERIVERY (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Family Issues, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Light Metaphors, M/M, Panic Attacks, Strangers to Friends to Lovers, a lot of metaphors tbh, anti-capitalism themes, hoyoung does graffiti :), loner hoyoung, popular dongheon, soft boys who have never been in love before what they gonna do, stream get away
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:29:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29829807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarangx/pseuds/sarangx
Summary: After moving to Seoul three years ago, Hoyoung has looked to the sunrise to comfort him. Then one Lee Dongheon stumbles into his life, making the sun pale in comparison.After living in Seoul all his life, Dongheon has lost sight of the sun. Hoyoung makes him realize the sun never disappeared.
Relationships: Bae Hoyoung/Lee Dongheon
Comments: 5
Kudos: 29





	1. Hoyoung

**Author's Note:**

> i tried doing a korean school system, but i am american !! so !! i'm sure there are mistakes and i'm very sorry about that :( most of my information comes from kdramas and a few sites on google, so please dont expect it to be perfect TT things like uniforms and school hours are deliberately changed here for the sake of the fic, so consider this system a hybrid of sorts. creative liberties....or something lmao
> 
> members are aged down bc this is a high school au~ dongheon and hoyoung are also same age just to make things easier lol no honorifics or korean age !
> 
> this does get a bit angsty. i will put warnings if needed in each chapter's notes :)
> 
> also! (veri)very loosely inspired by [rager teenager!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26528917) for the graffiti artist idea ! i love op's vrvr works~
> 
> [playlist](https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLgjtIYYMLMrBdtWSh-rgnlCEimDUCilvy) to listen to while you read ♡

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hoyoung admires the sunrise just as a new light enters his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS:  
> -mention of murder  
> -mentions of anxiety/panic attacks  
> -brief violence

Hoyoung is not a morning person.

He thinks anyone who says they are is either lying or psychotic. Because when he rouses to the sound of his phone blaring that annoying, repetitive jingle at fucking five-thirty in the morning, the only thing he can think of is tossing the expensive piece of shit at the wall. He doesn’t understand how anyone can think anything else.

Begrudgingly, he does not toss the expensive piece of shit at the wall, because that was worth a lot of money, thank you very much. Instead, he taps the Stop button a little too hard and sighs heavily as he stares at his ceiling. His eyes keep drooping but his mind is already buzzing. Fuck mornings. Really.

He crawls out of bed, throwing aside the comforter that he knows he needs to wash. He needs to wash his bedsheets, too, and his pillows and his clothes and-

He sighs again, shoving his face into his hands. He can already feel a headache forming and his day has barely started. If he thinks any more about all of the chores he has to do, he’s sure he’ll be struggling with a migraine the entire day. So with a little more sense, he accepts the cold sting the floorboards bring his feet and starts his morning routine.

His shower is uneventful, and so is most of the routine. He considers wearing something a bit more daring to school—which to him is, yes, a leather jacket, because it’s _fucking cool_ —but he decides not to. It’d catch too many eyes, and though he knows it seems rather flattering, he wants nothing more than to disappear into the scuffed linoleum floors of the classroom whenever he steps foot on campus. He settles on one of his flannels because it’s a safer choice, and hey! It’s still cute.

As he walks over to the kitchen (which is just a kitchenette, given it’s an apartment), he checks his phone for the time. _6:14_. Not bad. 

He’s about to look for some food when a letter on the counter catches his eye. He glances at it, but stops and frowns when he actually reads it.

_My Son Hoyoung,_

_Here is your allowance for the month. I will not be home tonight. Please spend it wisely. (And actually spend it!)_

_Your Mother_

Hoyoung scoffs, and lifts the letter to see ten fifty-thousand notes underneath it. ₩500,000 for the month? It’s way too much, like it always is. He glares at the notes like they’re personally offending him. He hesitates before taking two of them. For emergencies. He never really uses them because- because. . .it’s wrong and he doesn’t like it.

He looks at the notes in his hands, and he almost thinks Shin Saimdang is glaring back at him two times over. He gives into the guilt and drops them down with the other eight. He can’t.

Looking back at the fridge where he knows his leftovers are, he suddenly doesn’t feel so hungry anymore.

It’s a nice morning, or something, so he might as well take the long way to school, right? Maybe his appetite will be back by the time he passes that one convenience store. Or maybe he’ll see the stray cats by his favorite tteokbokki place! Sometimes he even sees stray dogs over there.

Just thinking about it is enough to get Hoyoung’s mind off of his mother, and he sets to stuffing textbooks and spray paint cans into his schoolbag. He hums a song to himself, not quite remembering the name, and he tugs on some shoes before tossing his bag over his shoulder and making his way out the door.

He lives in an apartment complex that, while comfortable and considered on the ‘good’ side of town, is still an apartment complex. He passes Mr. Lee, who is habitually cleaning his doorknob as much as he can, as he usually does every morning. It’s a little unsettling but ultimately harmless, so Hoyoung doesn’t ever acknowledge him, which can be said about most of his neighbors.

It’s a far cry from his home in New Zealand, that’s for sure. But he and his mom picked up and moved to Seoul when he was fifteen, for reasons he understands and has grown to accept. He could never fault his mother for that decision, given the circumstances, but he can’t help but mourn the loss of the clear blue skies and the sea salt breeze.

Of course, Seoul has its own merits; the sunrise is to die for. It has its own charm since it’s such a stark difference to the urban landscape of Seoul. It’s bright, and colorful, and happy, where Seoul is too busy to consider shining like the sun. Hoyoung finds it nice.

It’s nearing six-thirty now, as his phone supplies, and as he finally leaves the complex, he sees it.

Peeking out from the horizon, its rays push between buildings and reach for the dark blue of the night sky that’s slowly receding. The sun is an angry yellow, burning orange at its edges and radiating so brightly Hoyoung can’t look at it for too long. It’s a welcome warmth from the light spring chill.

He pulls his flannel closer to himself and tugs his mask over his nose before making the trek to school.

It’s not too much of a journey, really; it only takes an hour, and he could take the bus if he really wanted to. He does not want to, though, because he doesn’t want to see his classmates. His peers make his anxiety spike, and talking to people in general is something he doesn’t particularly concern himself with. School can be a nasty place, and he’d much rather fade into the background.

Besides, the walk—the scenic route, as he likes to call it—is a nice refresher from how busy his days usually are. For once, the busy nonstop Seoul seems to take a breath, if only for that one hour. Cars will still zoom past, and it isn’t as quiet as most places would be so early in the morning, but for Seoul and for Hoyoung, it’s enough. 

He does actually see the stray cats like he’d hoped. They’re a couple of brown tabbies that are usually seen together, and when Hoyoung feeds them, they never fight. He wonders if they’re brothers.

“Hello!” he calls to them excitedly, grinning as he crouches down a little ways away from them. They perk up at his appearance and scamper over, sniffing his outstretched hand. Green eyes twinkle and Hoyoung’s heart melts. “I’m sorry, little ones, I didn’t bring any food today.”

They sniff him a little more before one of them rubs against his arm, purring. Hoyoung coos at it, gently petting its head. The other cat seems to get jealous, because it headbutts his knee and looks at him expectantly. Hoyoung laughs, his dimple appearing as he gives it pats as well.

“I need to go now,” he says apologetically after a moment passes and his phone lets him know he’s been here for ten minutes. He gives the two scratches under their chins before rising to his feet and stretching his back. They chirrup at the movement, looking confused. He chuckles fondly. “I know, I know, I wish I could stay, too. But I have school, you know?” At the unwavering stares of the cats, he waves a dismissive hand. “Ah, you wouldn’t know. But I really must be going. I’ll see you another time, little ones!”

He waves at them and they try to follow him for a few steps before he turns down a busier street. Now that it’s nearing seven o’clock, more people are walking about. He once again pulls his flannel closer to himself and is careful not to make eye contact with anyone.

Weaving through more and more people is, to put it simply, stressful, but Hoyoung only has ten more minutes until his school comes into view. He wishes he was used to crowds now after being in Seoul for three years, but he still feels terribly tense and like he’s zapped by lightning whenever someone bumps into him.

He narrowly avoids one more person before he turns down the street leading to his school. It’s on a decline, so he’s careful not to trip on nothing like a dumbass and go tumbling down the street. Especially since there are quite a few of his schoolmates walking down, in pairs and groups laughing and smiling. He feels a twinge in his heart.

He directs his eyes away from them. He’s fine by himself. He always has been. Even in New Zealand, he didn’t have many friends, and that’s okay. He wasn’t bullied, and that was good enough for him. He’s just not a people person. He much prefers the company of the brown tabbies to a few fellow eighteen-year-olds. Really, he’s fine.

Still, as he walks down the decline and up the stairs to the front of the school, he tries not to look at the groups of friends. They look so _happy_. Hoyoung doesn’t get it, and he doesn’t think he ever will.

  
  
  


The day drags on as it usually tends to. Mr. Lim is a kind and enthusiastic teacher, but he gets distracted way too easily, and the other kids in his class take advantage of it so that they don’t actually have to do any work. It’s dumb, in Hoyoung’s opinion, and admittedly he does like learning so it’s a bit disappointing.

He turns to look out the window as Mr. Lim goes on about how his in-laws forgot to bring their own food for Seollal— _Seollal_! Can you believe that, class?—and misses how the sunrise turned the sky such a wide array of colors. It’s a clear blue now, a cerulean so endless Hoyoung almost feels dizzy staring at it. It’s starting to darken, though, and he knows that soon the sun will set. He hums to himself quietly and doodles in the margins of his notebook.

“Oh, is that a cat? It’s so cute!”

Hoyoung looks behind him so fast he swears he almost gets whiplash. He hastily covers the drawing of one of the tabbies, leaning an arm on the table. It’s not even that good—it’s barely a caricature.

The boy that so rudely commented on his very private, very important art is- is. . .stupidly pretty. Fuck. He has messy hair and pretty eyes and he’s looking at Hoyoung so innocently he finds his annoyance dissipating faster than he’d like.

“Sorry, was I not supposed to see that?” the boy asks sheepishly. “It really was cute, though.”

Hoyoung stares at him, honestly a bit speechless. He looks across the room and sees the group of- not popular kids, exactly, because while they certainly must think that, they’re just rich and no one wants to mess with the school’s biggest moneymakers. Capitalism is a bitch.

They’re looking over at the boy, and when they see Hoyoung, they start laughing amongst themselves and not-so-subtly pointing at him. What is this, some sort of shitty drama?

Mr. Lim seems to realize the time. He panics for a moment before calling for the mandatory ten-minute break and leaving the class. When he walks out, the group of rich kids saunter over to where the boy and Hoyoung are. Hoyoung tries his best to calm his nerves and, really, the annoyance that’s beginning to bubble to the surface because he’s an only child filled with _rage_ and _spite_.

“Dongheonie, what are you doing with Bae Hoyoung?” one of the girls asks, smiling like she’s trying to be friendly, but her eyes are too cold to pull it off. Hoyoung doesn’t really concern himself with names, much less people, so he has no idea who any of them actually are. How they know his name, he’s not sure, but he’s also not a fucking millionaire, so he’s not about to ask.

Hoyoung catches Dongheon’s eye for a moment before he turns back to his notes, highlighting key terms and trying his best to ignore how for once in his life he’s in the spotlight.

“I just dropped my pencil and he gave it to me,” Dongheon says with a smile, turning to the group. Hoyoung pauses for barely a second while highlighting, surprised the boy actually covered for him. It was just a doodle, but he would’ve surely been teased for it.

“Oh? Bae Hoyoung being nice?” one of the boys asks, smirking and raising an eyebrow in interest. “That’s new.”

“He’s usually so cold! Ignoring everyone who talks to him,” the first girl says, and Hoyoung has to stifle a scoff. “Ah, so cold Bae Hoyoung!” she cries, dramatically covering her face. The rest of the group snickers like it’s something hilarious.

They continue talking about Hoyoung, which he thinks is quite funny because he’s never given these kids much thought, but he keeps ignoring them. He has more important matters to tend to that don’t include jeering at a student. He glances at his phone and sees the break is almost over.

“Ah, do you think he’s so cold because of his home life?” one of the boys suggests, like it’s some sort of conspiracy theory.

“Oh, like in dramas?” The first girl says—something like Kyungha? Kyunghee? Who fucking knows. “Like he has a tragic backstory that makes him so cold?” Even though Hoyoung isn’t looking at them, he can feel her eyes turn to him. “Ah~ Bae Hoyoung the tragic male lead! Isn’t that something?” She giggles. “What do you think happened? Is he a bastard child? Or. . .maybe he’s an orphan!”

“No, no,” the second boy chimes in. “He saw his father murder his mother! Now he’s a mute!” It’s a disturbing comment, and it’s made even more disturbing by how the entire group laughs.

Hoyoung’s grip on his pencil is harsh, and he can feel one of his nails digging into the side of his thumb. Before they can notice, Mr. Lim comes back in and announces that he will resume class.

Usually, Hoyoung likes world history, but he doesn’t pay attention for the rest of the class. His anxiety is high and his fingers have started to shake, and his heart rate has slowly been building. When class is over, Hoyoung quickly collects his things and is one of the first students out the door.

Technically, he should stay and study for his entrance exams. He is a senior now, after all. But another second in that classroom and he’s sure he would have had a full-blown anxiety attack.

He doesn’t remember walking down the front steps of the school or walking up the incline, but he’s suddenly walking through alleys on the side of town where there’s a lot of construction. He looks up at the sky and sees the sun setting, painting the cerulean pink and orange. He looks around. It’s deserted.

He looks for a blank wall. He has too much energy now, and he needs it _out_.

There are many unfinished buildings around, but most of them are at the bare bones stage of construction. He looks around a bit more before settling on the back of an abandoned apartment complex. Ironic, all things considered, but it’s better than everything else.

The back of it seems to have had its pipes and radiator and whatever else ripped out. He’s sure the entire complex will be torn down and reconstructed soon.

He pulls his mask over his nose and rifles through his bag, pulling out various colors of spray cans. He goes for white to sketch out his idea, which he usually does absolutely zero planning for.

The sketch takes a solid twenty minutes. He usually goes for smaller pieces, but he’s feeling annoyed and anxious today. This one is half his height, and as he goes about coloring and outlining, his arms get sorer and sorer. He wipes the sweat forming on his brow as he works, and tries to make do with the sunlight that’s slowly dimming.

It takes an hour and a half. When he steps back from it, though, he’s satisfied.

A blue sky with the sun shining and clouds serenely drifting past. High above the piece he painted a single thundercloud, dark and rolling, with one big lightning bolt shooting down into the sunny sky. It’s definitely stylized, because painting a realistic sun would’ve been more trouble than it’s worth, and he thinks the little rays he painted are cute. The thundercloud was hard to do just because he had to do it from his tiptoes, and now he has cramps in his feet.

Humming a song once again, he takes a black spray can to tag it. _be happy._

It’s not an artist tag exactly. But he’s not doing this to gain recognition; he’s doing it because it’s the only real way he can feel he can express himself. It’s colorful and abstract and free. The fumes of aerosol are nearly choking him, though, so after taking a picture of the piece—because yes, he _is_ proud of it, dammit—he closes all of his spray cans and shoves them into his bag, zipping it up and tossing it over his shoulder.

It’s dark now, and the streetlights glow a sickly yellow-orange as he walks down the streets to his apartment. Despite the usual crowds of people, Hoyoung still feels like his shoulders are lighter.

  
  


***

  
  


Five-thirty comes again, and he’s about as excited about it as he would be about an exam. He sighs as he quiets his alarm, staring at the ceiling as he always does and contemplating whether staying in school is actually worth it.

Despite thinking that no, it really isn’t, he still gets up from his bed and starts for the shower.

As always, it’s uneventful, and after choosing a simple white shirt and grey hoodie, he makes his way to the kitchen.

“Hoyoungie! Good morning!”

He freezes. His mother is home. She’s standing in the kitchen looking at him with her usual bright, dimpled smile that matches his own. It even looks like she’s making breakfast. This is all great, except. . .

“You’re never home,” Hoyoung says thoughtlessly, eyes wide in confusion. “You have work. What happened to work? Did something happen?”

“No, no. My, I thought you would be more excited,” she says with a laugh. She sets down the wooden spoon to give Hoyoung all of her attention. He could cry at that in itself. “They gave a lot of people the day off! Said they were considering me for a promotion. I figured I’d make us breakfast to celebrate!”

Hoyoung can’t help but to keep staring at her. This is so strange. He hasn’t seen her since. . .since last month, and that just for a brief goodbye before she left for work.

He looks at the stove where she seems to be making quite the big breakfast. She’s even brought out the fancy ceramic bowls they only bring out for holidays. Holidays Hoyoung usually spends alone.

“Why are you. . .” Hoyoung struggles to find words to describe what he’s feeling. He returns his eyes to hers. “You haven’t even gotten the promotion yet.”

“Well, no, I haven’t,” she says, turning her head to mix one of the pots, “but I thought it would be nice to spend the morning with you.”

Hoyoung can feel his legs shake like they’re about to buckle. He doesn’t understand what’s going on. His mother is never home. Never. All she does is give him a wad of cash and expect him to be okay. She expects him to take care of himself, and to navigate the world by himself, and to- to be perfectly fine and healthy and _happy_ , when she’s back at her stupid cubicle in a stupid office.

“Hoyoungie? Why are you crying, honey?” she asks worriedly, rushing forward to hold his face in her hands to wipe at his tears. Part of him revels in it, misses the feeling of her hands comforting him, because back in New Zealand he cried a lot with her, and she’d do what she’s doing now, but now it’s different. It’s so different and she’s acting like it’s _not_.

The other part of him nearly roars, blood rushing in his ears as he pulls back from her like he was burned. He can’t make eye contact with her now. He’s shaking and crying and he thinks he smells tteokbokki and it hurts that she remembers it’s his favorite.

“You- you can’t do that,” he chokes out, shaking his head. “You can’t. . .you can’t come in here and- and just-” he sobs brokenly, the words wobbly and a hair away from shattering completely. “Just act like- like everything’s good.”

“Hoyoung. . .” she starts, and he can already tell she doesn’t get it.

“No,” he says firmly, wiping at his nose. “No. You can’t give me money and-” he bites his lip to stifle a sob, but a choked whimper still makes it out. His lip bleeds. “You can’t overcompensate with money, Mom.” He breathes a shaky breath. “Not when you’re not fixing the problem.”

It’s too early for this. It’s six in the morning and his mom is here, cooking breakfast like it’s his birthday, but she hasn’t done anything for his birthday for the past three years. She’s here, comforting him like she hasn’t completely left him for the wolves.

“Hoyoung, you know I’m busy,” she says gently, but he can see how her smile is taut. Her dimple is gone. “I can’t help the schedule I have. I need to make money for the two of us. And you. . .” she looks at the notes on the counter that he didn’t take. “You refuse the money I give you like it’s nothing. You know I work hard for all that.”

“Then _take it_!” Hoyoung snaps. “I don’t want it! You give it to me, and expect it to fill in for you!” He’s openly glaring at her now, but he’s sure the tears that are still dripping down his cheeks make him look rather pathetic.

“Hoyoung.” She sounds annoyed now as she turns back to the food on the stove. “You’re acting like a child. You’re eighteen now, aren’t you? You should act like it.”

“I’m surprised you even remember my age,” he retorts, feeling his heart crack a little more. “You remember little else.”

“Don’t be ungrateful,” she says, tone even as she turns off the stove and goes about preparing the dishes. Like it’s a nice companionable breakfast between mother and son. Like everything is perfect and serene. Her words don’t match her actions. “I hope you actually eat this food. I spent quite a while on it, you know.”

Hoyoung looks at the clock on the wall. _6:06._ He sighs, wanting nothing more than to run out. But his mother is here, and she cooked a meal he knows she spent way too much time on. He’ll play pretend for now, for ten minutes maybe, and then she’ll be gone once again.

He sits at the dinner table. He rarely ever does, and it feels strange to sit in it now. The table feels too big and the chairs have thin padding so he keeps shifting uncomfortably.

His mother goes about setting the table, which he feels guilty about not helping with, but she likes things to be done a certain way. He keeps his eyes on the table, and when she’s done and seated at the other end of the table, he waits for her to start eating.

It’s unbearably awkward and the silence feels stilted. The food is good, is great, because his own mother cooked it, but it tastes so bitterly familiar it just makes him want to cry again. He almost drops his chopsticks a few times because he keeps zoning in and out of memories.

When the clock hits 6:20, he bows politely and thanks her for the meal. He thinks he hears her say that the bow was too professional, but he ignores her in favor of grabbing his bag and slipping on some shoes. When he’s about to walk out the door, she stops him.

“Hoyoung,” she says, and she’s looking at him with a look he doesn’t recognize. “You know I love you, right?”

He’s wanted to hear those words from his mom for a long time. He’s dreamt of her saying them, of her holding his hand and apologizing for leaving him all alone for all that time. But now it just feels wrong. It makes the insides of his stomach fill with acid, and he can’t help but to scoff at her coldly.

“Right,” he says, brushing past her, because what use are words if actions don’t match them?

The walk to school isn’t as refreshing as it usually is. It’s colder today, so the tear tracks on his cheeks actually make his skin sting as he wipes at them. He ducks his head down the entire time with his hood up because he’s sure he looks like shit.

He decides not to go the scenic route. All he wants is to curl up and cry, and seeing the brown tabbies will only make him cry harder, he just knows it.

When he walks up the stairs to his school and through the hall, he keeps his eyes down and makes sure his mask is secure. He doesn’t usually care for the school gossip, but today the talk catches his attention.

“Did you see the graffiti by the bus stop? It’s so cool!”

“Right? I heard they’re looking for who did it, but no one seems to recognize the artist.”

Hoyoung can’t help but suddenly freeze, ice pricking his veins. Had he really done that piece so close to school? He didn’t think it was nearby. Then again, he wasn’t in the right mind at the time. . .

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and keeps walking, thankful he’s been able to stay under the radar thus far. He really hopes the teachers don’t call for a bag search or he’ll be fucked.

It seems the universe really hates him today, though, because after he settles in homeroom and Mr. Lim walks in, he immediately asks the students to empty their bags on their desks. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Shit.

“Sorry, class, I know it’s a bit of a hassle, but a few officers asked us to. Graffiti is a criminal charge, you know.” The students groan and reluctantly dump their bags on their desks, and it’s loud enough for Hoyoung to quietly move his spray cans to the very bottom of his bag without their clinking being too noticeable.

He tries to play it cool as he does so, careful to school his expression into something bored. He dumps his notebooks, textbooks, and pencil case on the desk along with his phone and wallet, and sets his bag carefully on the desk so it looks empty. Hopefully Mr. Lim won’t look too closely.

Fortunately, Hoyoung seems to be one of the last students Mr. Lim is checking. The teacher scans each desk with a careful eye and a glance into the student’s bag, obviously trying to start the class sooner rather than later. When he gets to Hoyoung’s desk, he does much the same, but pauses slightly when he glances into Hoyoung’s bag. Fuck.

Mr. Lim meets Hoyoung’s eyes for a moment before continuing down the row of students, not saying a word. Hoyoung wants to breathe a sigh of relief, but instead he turns his attention to the window like he didn’t nearly pass out from the stress of it all.

 _Graffiti is a criminal charge, you know_. He didn’t know that actually! He really almost became a criminal. Wait, a _convicted_ criminal, since he already is one. Holy shit. Hoyoung is a criminal.

“As I expected, none of my precious students are criminals,” Mr. Lim says with a smile. Hoyoung is really about to pass out. His homeroom teacher knows he’s a criminal. “You may put away your things and we can start our day.”

No one seems surprised by it, and soon the class goes on normally. Hoyoung still feels the anxiety buzzing under his skin even after he’s put everything back in his bag and he knows he’s in the clear. He knows no one suspects him, would even bat an eye at him or consider him for just a second, but still. . .to be known as a criminal sends a chill down his spine.

The rest of the day drags on as it usually does, and Hoyoung can feel the anxiety simmering low in his chest. Every time he hears someone talking about the graffiti he painted, he feels a mix of paranoia and pride. He’s terrified they’ll somehow find out it was him, but he’s also flattered by all the compliments. After all, he’s never shown people his work. He knew graffiti was illegal, of course, but he didn’t think it was something worth jail time.

As he walks into the classroom for the last class of the day, he considers whether or not he should actually quit. Yeah, Hoyoung would definitely not survive jail, but. . .he doesn’t think he could survive not doing graffiti, either. He tries to do it in places he knows people won’t miss. He doesn’t really consider himself a delinquent, or a rebel, or a scoundrel, or whatever else—he’s an artist. Simple. And as an artist, he doesn’t think he can ever imagine himself living happily without art.

He supposes he could just forego the graffiti medium, but. . .well, where was the fun in that? He’s an anxious eighteen-year-old who has taken no other risks. He’s tired of feeling guilty about money and feeling anxious about school and about people. Graffiti grants him the freedom acrylics and canvas can’t.

“Hi, Hoyoung!”

He startles at being called, looking up from his desk to see who actually felt the need to greet him. To his surprise, it’s the boy the rich kids affectionately called Dongheonie.

“Uh, hey,” Hoyoung says awkwardly, giving a short dip of his head. Dongheon seems rather excited by this, for a reason he doesn’t understand.

“Ah, so you _do_ talk?”

Oh. Normally, Hoyoung would wryly laugh at the question—ha, ha, the quiet kid talks, what a funny, original joke—but Dongheon asks so earnestly, he can’t help but answer.

“I- yeah,” Hoyoung replies, chuckling slightly. He looks over to where the rich kids were yesterday but finds them absent.

“They don’t come ‘til the last possible second. Sometimes they’re late,” Dongheon explains, probably seeing where Hoyoung was looking. Hoyoung returns his gaze to Dongheon and is struck once again by how pretty he is. He’s not sure what to say.

“You heard about the graffiti, right?” Dongheon says, lowering his voice like it’s some sort of secret. When Hoyoung nods, just barely hiding his amused smile, Dongheon grins. “Isn’t it cool? You know, I actually really like art. Especially stuff as free as graffiti!” He looks around to make sure no one heard him before continuing. “I could never do that. You heard Mr. Lim say it was a criminal charge, right? That’s crazy.”

Hoyoung doesn’t quite understand why Dongheon is suddenly friendly with him, but he finds his enthusiasm amusing, and honestly, contagious.

“It is,” Hoyoung agrees with a nod, not able to hide how his lips quirk up slightly. He presses his lips together to conceal it, knowing his dimple probably showed, but by Dongheon’s gasp he knows it’s too late.

“You have a dimple!” Dongheon says with bright eyes, pointing to his own cheek, which Hoyoung is grateful for because he would’ve punched him if he tried to touch his face.

“Ah, yeah,” Hoyoung says shyly, looking away.

“It’s cute,” Dongheon coos, and Hoyoung feels his cheeks color. Ah, what the fuck. . .

In the corner of his eye, he sees the group of rich kids enter the classroom. Quickly, he turns back to his desk and goes about opening his textbook. He thinks Dongheon understands why because the boy doesn’t ask. Just from that one interaction yesterday, he can tell Dongheon doesn’t trust the rich kids, either, even if he does seem to associate with them.

Throughout the class, he can see them shifting in their seats and murmuring to each other. He hasn’t paid them much attention before, mainly because he doesn’t pay anyone else any attention, but now they’re speculating about his trauma and that’s. . .well, it’s not very cool. It pisses him off, really, that they’re treating him like he’s a character in a drama. It’s annoying at best, and completely and utterly dehumanizing at worst.

When Mr. Lim calls for break, the group walks over to him. Hoyoung, above everything else, wants to grab his heaviest textbook and deck the head bitch across the face. He’s had enough of a day already; he just wants to cry in his bed alone.

He doesn’t turn to look at them. Instead, he keeps his eyes on his textbook and all of his attention on reading the same two sentences over and over.

“Ah, cold Bae Hoyoung is ignoring us once again,” Kyunghee says, that same dramatic tone to her voice. Her faux sadness makes Hoyoung’s skin itch.

“He’s probably planning how to steal all of our money,” one of the boys says with a scoff. “You know he’s in the top five percent of the school? Best bet is he’s using that brain of his to-”

“Don’t say that, Jeonghoon! That’s ridiculous,” another girl retorts. “He’s probably just a pickpocket. And if he really was that elaborate of a schemer, he’d be in the top one percent.”

“You’re right, you’re right. The only way he could have clothes at all is by being a petty thief,” Kyunghee agrees sagely. “So sad, what poverty does to the diligent citizens of Korea.” She sighs. “But what can you do? They’re born into it. Some people just shouldn’t have kids.”

Hoyoung bites his lip so hard, it reopens the cut he’d made earlier in the morning. It stings but he barely feels it.

It shouldn’t be getting under his skin, what they’re saying. It’s not true. He’s not poor. His _family_ isn’t poor. His mother, while not the best at being one, loves him. He knows she does, she’s just not very good at showing it. She’s the strongest woman he knows, the most resilient, and these trust fund kids are acting like money equates to happiness. His mother thinks the same, and he has to wonder why.

It takes everything he has to keep his mouth shut. He wants to spit in their faces, ask them when was the last time their parents told them they loved them, because he knows that to be rich, you have to throw away everything else.

“Oh, I think we made him mad,” Jeonghoon says with a laugh. Hoyoung has half the mind to go through with the textbook plan.

“What’s wrong, Bae Hoyoung? Did I strike a nerve?” Kyunghee asks, and despite keeping his eyes down, he can practically hear the sickly sweet smile in her voice.

There’s something bubbling in his stomach, hot and overflowing and he knows he’s close to exploding. Truthfully, it’s a familiar feeling, and it’s one he’s gotten good at controlling over the years. So with a an eerie calmness, he turns his head and levels his eyes to Kyunghee’s, smiling back at her and matching the sweetness.

“Keep my name out of your mouth,” he says lowly, dimple on full display. “You’ve been using it too much lately.”

The looks on all of the rich kids’ faces are priceless. Their eyes are blown wide, and Jeonghoon and the other girl look at each other in shock and back at him, like they're surprised he said anything at all. He guesses they really did think he was mute.

Kyunghee, though, looks pissed. Her smile falls off of her face, and is replaced by an angered frown, her eyes finally matching her mouth. Before she can unleash all of her anger on poor Hoyoung—ah, yes, he’s shaking in fear—Mr. Lim comes back in and tells everyone that class will resume.

They obediently walk over to their seats, but when Kyunghee sits down, she openly glares at Hoyoung. He winks, and it’s enough for her to scoff and look away.

“Assholes,” he mutters to himself, turning back to his textbook and notes. He leans into his hand, yawning. He really, _really_ wants to take a nap after all that. But he still feels the anxiety buzzing under his skin, and he only knows of one way he can expel it.

It’s a stupid idea, he knows. But when class ends and he’s walking out, it’s the only thing he can think of. He’s felt shaky and tired all day; he just wants to let out some of the excess energy that’s slowly been building a headache.

When he starts for the incline outside the school, he can see a few cops overlooking the campus. He snorts under his breath. There’s no way he’s doing a piece so close to school again. He’s not sure what exactly they’re planning to do, because as far as he’s aware, there were no security cameras anywhere near the abandoned apartment complex. The place was completely deserted. And without that evidence, it’s impossible to catch anyone.

Still, as he walks past the cops, he bows and continues on his way. He’ll just have to walk a bit further today.

It takes him awhile—about half an hour or so, before he gets to a place he finds suitable. It’s on the side of town he’s not as familiar with, and admittedly it does feel a bit shady. There are cigarette butts and smashed soju bottles on the ground, and there’s random trash everywhere. He has to carefully pick across broken glass to get to the old brick wall of a structure that’s so dilapidated he can’t tell what it used to be.

He doesn’t think there’s any sort of security around here, but just for the sake of being cautious, he looks around for cameras. Seeing none, he drops his bag on the ground and starts taking out spray cans. He’s only planning on doing a small piece, anyway.

He thinks about sketching, but decides not to, instead going straight for the yellow. He looks over the wall before bringing his mask over his nose and spraying on a circle. It’s not perfect, but he tries to clean it up with a few more sprays. When he’s content with it, he reaches for the white to draw a little puffy cloud. They’re one of his favorite things to draw because he finds them cute.

He shakes a light blue spray can and pops open the cap to add some definition to the cloud. He hums to himself as he works, using black to outline the piece and adding a U shape to the yellow circle to show that it’s a smiley face. He finishes it with a few more touch-ups and steps back to look over it.

Not bad, if he says so himself, considering it only took him twenty minutes. He makes quick work of writing his be happy tag and takes a picture of the finished piece.

As he closes the caps of his spray cans and stuffs them into his bag, he hears shuffling outside of the alley he’s in. He pauses and stares in the direction it came from, holding his breath. Goosebumps rise across his skin, and the cold edge of uneasiness makes him shiver.

He puts his hood up and tosses his bag over his shoulder, eyeing the opening of the alley as he quietly walks forward, despite every nerve in his body yelling at him not to. He can’t stay where he is, or he’ll just be cornered. He doesn’t know any sort of martial arts, so he’s not sure what he’s going to do if there is someone out there, but it’s worse if he stays in a place where there’s no way out.

There’s a tense silence for a few long moments before Hoyoung is suddenly pushed to the side of the alley by the force of one man alone, his back colliding harshly with the brick wall behind him. He hears a soju bottle shatter, and a sting in the back of his leg. He hisses out a curse and flicks his eyes to the man who appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

He’s wearing a mask and a black hood, and there’s a bandana around his head. Hoyoung can hardly see any facial features, but the look in his eyes is crazed and he realizes this man is most definitely not sober. His eyes are almost entirely black because of how dilated his pupils are, and the stench of alcohol makes Hoyoung want to cry from the familiarity. The uneasiness has morphed into full-fledged fear, and it grips his heart so tightly he thinks he might explode from the inside out.

The man is gripping Hoyoung by his shoulders, putting all of his weight into keeping Hoyoung nailed to the wall. The blond struggles to move at all, and resorts to trying to kick the man in the dick. He misses, and ends up hitting his thigh instead, which makes the man even more angry. He shouts something incomprehensible, a mixture of drunken syllables that slur together, and reaches for Hoyoung’s throat.

_Oh, fuck, no, no, no. . ._

Now truly panicking, Hoyoung thrashes around, nearly choking on the odor of soju and beer. His heartbeat is in his ears, and the only noise in his head is the sound of static. He feels the man’s hands wrap around his throat, now keeping him up by that alone. Hoyoung reaches for his hands, clawing helplessly as he feels his lungs ache with every breath he can’t inhale. Black spots splatter his vision, and he starts to think that maybe dying after doing what he loved wasn’t so bad.

Suddenly, there’s a crash, and Hoyoung is cut by a few small shards of glass. The grip on his throat is ripped away, and he drops to the ground, coughing as he finally breathes.

There’s a voice he thinks he recognizes, but there’s only loud static in his brain as his vision slowly starts to return to normal. As it does, he finally feels the pain in his leg and the nicks on his cheek. He doesn’t think either of them are deep, but they still hurt like fuck. He breathes in slowly to regain some sense of composure, and forces himself up despite how his legs feel like they might buckle at any moment.

“Careful, careful,” a voice says, and it takes a moment to process in Hoyoung’s overstimulated brain that it’s fucking Dongheon, of all people.

“Ah, Dongheon,” Hoyoung mutters, his voice hoarse, probably from being _fucking choked_. Jesus Christ, what a day.

He looks over to Dongheon and sees the drunk man on the ground not too far away, obviously dazed. Hoyoung sees the shattered bottle and realizes he must’ve been hit over the head with it. He looks at Dongheon incredulously.

“Look, we have to go. He’ll be back on his feet soon. Come on.” Dongheon reaches for Hoyoung’s wrist but pauses, looking at him. After getting a slow nod, he grabs Hoyoung’s wrist and his bag and leads him away from the alley.

The world is still blurry around him, and the sound of static is still softly hissing in the back of his head, but his brain finally seems to ground itself at Dongheon's touch. Distantly, Hoyoung finds that his hand is quite warm.


	2. Dongheon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After years of living under a cloudy sky, Dongheon finally feels the sun's rays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS:  
> -injury descriptions  
> -physical abuse mention  
> all are minor and brief!

Dongheon hadn’t planned on following the pretty blond boy all the way to the other side of town. He didn’t think Hoyoung was the kind of person that hung out in bad places, but maybe he was.

When he followed him to the street with all the very suspiciously spaced buildings and alleys, he had gotten a little spooked. Distracted, too, and he’d ended up losing track of Hoyoung. By the time he found him again, he was being choked out by a crazy man who smelled too much like alcohol for it to only be six o’clock on a Thursday.

It was not a pretty sight, seeing Hoyoung digging his nails into the man’s hands with eyes fierce but dimming. Dongheon, honestly, had panicked a bit, and had thrown the soju bottle in a fit of recklessness. He was lucky it had worked and didn’t just get both him and Hoyoung killed.

Now, as he makes sure to keep Hoyoung close to him, all he feels is relief. The boy’s a little banged up, but he’s alive and walking and- and looking annoyed, as he usually does.

“Are you feeling okay?” Dongheon asks gently when they stop in an alley beside a restaurant, away from people’s eyes but safer than wherever the hell Hoyoung had decided to go.

Hoyoung’s eyes zero in on him, surprisingly warm, before he blinks and looks away. Dongheon thinks he feels his heart flutter in his chest.

“‘M fine,” he mutters, and he shifts his weight to his right foot, tugging at his mask so it stays over his mouth. He seems to hesitate to say something, and he plays with the strings of his hoodie for a moment before looking back at Dongheon. “Thanks. . .” he pauses, looks away, looks back. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Dongheon can only stare at him.

“You- you were about to _die_. Of course I had to do that!”

Hoyoung’s eyes drop to the ground as he shifts his weight to his other foot. He winces. He mutters something under his breath and looks down at his leg.

“What? Did you hurt your leg?” Dongheon asks, worried.

“No. Don’t worry about it,” the blond says easily, waving a hand, but Dongheon ignores him. He squats down and taps on Hoyoung’s leg.

“Let me see.” He meets Hoyoung’s stare with his own stubborn eyes. “Come on. If it’s nothing, then there’s no reason not to show me.”

Hoyoung sighs, grumbling, and rolls up his jeans to show a nasty cut on the back of his calf. It doesn’t seem to be bleeding anymore, but Dongheon’s willing to bet there might be glass inside it. He looks back at Hoyoung, who is refusing to look anywhere near his leg.

“There might be glass inside. We should disinfect it.” He stands back up. “There’s a convenience store around here, right? It’d be better if you sat down.”

Hoyoung says nothing, but he looks at Dongheon like he’s out of his mind.

“What? Do you have a better idea?”

“I just don’t understand why you’re helping me.”

“Why wouldn’t I help you?” Dongheon frowns. “You nearly died and you’re hurt.”

“I can take care of myself fine,” Hoyoung says, and the glare he directs at Dongheon is scathing, but his tone is off. “You don’t have to help me. I know for a fact your friends wouldn’t, so why are you?”

At the mention of his friends, Dongheon looks away and sighs. Fuck, did he really have to notice that?

“My friends are. . .” He pauses, trying to find the words. “They’re not really that bad, you know? Just stressed.”

“Just stressed? Are you serious?” Hoyoung stares at him, and it makes him feel bare. “I’ve been stressed, and I don’t do half the shit they do.” He narrows his eyes. “Do you?”

“I- well, no, but-”

“But _what_?”

“Look,” Dongheon starts, “I actually came to apologize on behalf of them. They- they don’t understand what they’re doing or what effect their words have. I don’t understand them, either.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Really.”

Hoyoung’s incredulous stare doesn’t let up. If anything, his apology only seems to strengthen it. The blond scoffs and shakes his head.

“You have nothing to apologize for, Dongheon,” he says, and his tone is cold, but Dongheon still feels oddly touched. “Those friends of yours, though? Assholes. Every last one of them. I don’t understand why you defend them, but. . .” He glances at Dongheon, and the brunet thinks it’s in curiosity, but the glance is too short for him to know for sure. “It’s none of my business.”

In all honesty, Dongheon doesn’t know why he defends them, either. He always wants to give them the benefit of the doubt even though he knows they don’t deserve it. He’s been dragged around by them, and he sees how they treat other students. Sometimes Dongheon wants to stand up for them, wants to ask why Kyunghee feels the need to bring up someone’s dead grandma just because they won’t get out of her way. _Do you have any empathy, Kyunghee?_ he wants to ask, _Do you feel anything at all?_ but he thinks the only answer he’ll get is that sickly sweet smile.

“Hoyoung,” Dongheon says, and he finds it cute how the blond immediately looks up at the call of his name, brown eyes wide. He blinks. “Let’s go to the convenience store, get your leg patched up.”

“I- fine. Whatever,” Hoyoung acquiesces with a sigh, following closely behind when Dongheon walks out of the alley.

“It doesn’t look too bad,” Dongheon says, glancing back at him before looking ahead. “Your neck is already starting to bruise, though. I don’t think I have any cream for that. Do you need me to buy you some?”

“Why does everyone think I’m poor?” Hoyoung grumbles. “I can buy it myself.”

“I didn’t say you couldn’t,” Dongheon says with a laugh. He holds out his hand silently— _don’t get away from me again_ , it says, but maybe Dongheon’s still not fully recovered over losing Hoyoung earlier—and after a second, he feels Hoyoung slide his wrist into his grasp. Neither of them acknowledge it. “Do you have any other injuries you’re hiding from me?”

“I didn’t _hide_ it from you-”

“You just lied to me about it.”

Hoyoung sighs, grumbles something, and Dongheon is helplessly endeared by how much he seems to grumble to himself.

“I only have a few little ones,” he says quietly. “They’re not bad.”

“We’ll disinfect them, too, then.”

Before Hoyoung can protest, Dongheon opens the door of the convenience store for him. The blond glares, but at this point Dongheon’s no longer fazed. He gestures for him to go first, but Hoyoung drags him inside with him. He can’t help but to laugh.

As they go through the aisles, he feels Hoyoung’s wrist pull him back. He looks behind him to see the boy staring at what looks like gummies. He’s about to ask Hoyoung if he wants them, but the blond quickly steps away from them like he hadn’t been longingly staring at them.

Dongheon chuckles and takes a couple of bags of gummy worms. He never expected Hoyoung to be a gummy type of person, but he guesses there’s a lot he doesn’t know.

“I’m not poor!” Hoyoung practically whines. “I can pay for those myself!”

“What if I wanted them?”

Hoyoung goes quiet at that, freezing.

“I’m kidding. These are one-hundred percent for you, Hoyoungie,” Dongheon says with a grin.

He expects Hoyoung to grow even more annoyed, but instead he sees the tips of his ears flush. Hoyoung stares at him before huffing and looking away. Dongheon wants nothing more than to see if the boy’s face is just as pink, but his mask makes that impossible.

After grabbing the bruise cream and a pack of band-aids just in case, Dongheon is about to walk up to the cash register but is gently tugged away. He looks over at Hoyoung curiously.

“Have you eaten yet?” He’s standing by the assortment of ramen.

“Oh. No, I haven’t,” Dongheon replies. “Just get me whatever.”

Hoyoung nods and scans the ramen for a moment before grabbing two cups, sliding his wrist back under Dongheon’s hand as he looks over them. Dongheon’s heart squeezes as he gently holds the blond’s wrist.

He quickly pays for everything, shushing Hoyoung when he whines once again that he’s not poor.

“I know you aren’t. It’s just more convenient this way. Besides, you can pay me back another time or something,” Dongheon says dismissively, walking to the counter by the window so they can sit on the stools. He sets the bag of items on top, taking out the cups of ramen.

“Another time?” Hoyoung repeats, sliding onto one of the stools.

“Yeah,” Dongheon says, looking at him. “Unless you don’t want to see me again?”

“No! I- no, it’s-” Hoyoung stutters, “I- I do.” He laughs nervously, unable to look at Dongheon. The brunet snorts and shakes his head with a smile.

“Okay, then, pay me back next time.”

After pouring hot water into the ramen cups from the machine, he lets them sit. He looks over at Hoyoung and sees he’s taken off his mask to eat the gummies, his eyes far away as he looks out the window. Dongheon frowns.

“Are you okay?”

“Hm?” Hoyoung blinks, looking at Dongheon. He’s able to see the little nicks in his cheek now, and though they don’t look too bad, he still wants to disinfect them.

“Did he hurt your lip, too?” Dongheon asks, eyebrows furrowed when he sees the two cuts in Hoyoung’s bottom lip. They’re an angry, bloody red, and they look incredibly raw.

“What? Oh.” Hoyoung touches his lip. “No. That-” His eyes look down and back at Dongheon. “That’s from earlier today. I- it wasn’t anyone.”

Dongheon’s frown deepens. That means Hoyoung did it, then. But the cuts look pretty deep. He holds Hoyoung’s chin to inspect them closer, ignoring how he flinches in surprise with a little squeak.

“What are you-”

“These are deep, Hoyoung, how did you do that?”

Hoyoung looks down, stretching a gummy worm instead of answering. He feels the soft flutter of an exhale leave the blond’s nose.

“Whatever, okay? You don’t have to answer that. Sorry.” Dongheon takes his hand away. He knows Hoyoung is very private. Dongheon’s never seen him talk to anyone at school, and he doubts he’ll do so willingly after only a few encounters with Dongheon.

“No, it’s. . .” Hoyoung’s voice is softer now. “It’s fine.” He looks up from his gummy to give Dongheon a little smile. The brunet could cry from how cute he is. “Today’s just been stressful, for more reasons than one,” he says with a sigh. “My lip doesn’t usually get this bad, but. . .well,” a shrug, “it did. It’ll be fine.”

“I’m still gonna disinfect it,” Dongheon insists, and Hoyoung laughs. His dimple appears, and Dongheon swears he’s never seen someone as effortlessly pretty and adorable as Bae Hoyoung.

“You’re gonna disinfect everything, Heonie,” Hoyoung mumbles, the amusement clear in his voice as he keeps his eyes focused on the gummy.

 _Heonie_. Holy shit. Dongheon is going to pass out.

“Sorry, am I not allowed to call you that? I should’ve-”

“No! No, it-” Dongheon stutters, and he’s sure he’s beaming way too much for such a small thing, “-it’s great. I love it.”

Hoyoung doesn’t make fun of his enthusiasm. Instead, his eyes soften and he smiles. A real, genuine smile from Bae Hoyoung that shows off his dimple in a way that doesn’t scream _Keep talking, Kyunghee, and I’ll rip out your throat so you’ll never say my name again._ No, he’s looking at Dongheon in a way that he can’t quite describe, but it makes his cheeks heat up and he has to look away.

They fall into a comfortable silence after that. Dongheon goes about taking out his first-aid kit from his bag, and puts the disinfectant spray on the counter next to the bruise cream and band-aids. He doesn’t think he needs gauze for the cut on Hoyoung’s leg, but he takes out a packet of tissues to get rid of dried blood.

“Could you put your leg up for me?” he asks, patting his thigh.

Hoyoung stops mid-chew, looking at him once again like he’s crazy. Dongheon laughs.

“Come on, Hoyoungie,” he drawls. “It’ll be easier. I’ll be fast, too.”

Hoyoung sighs, like Dongheon is asking him to do a big chore, and dramatically swings his leg over so it lays on the brunet’s lap. His ankle dangles over the other side, so Dongheon is able to comfortably treat the cut.

“This is weird,” Hoyoung mumbles as Dongheon rolls up his jeans and wipes at the cut with a tissue he sprayed with the disinfectant. He’s surprised the blond doesn’t even flinch.

“I wouldn’t have to do this if you didn’t go to the most suspicious place in Seoul,” Dongheon says, concentrating on getting the wound clean. He looks over it for any glass and is able to pick out a tiny shard.

“It’s not _my_ fault the National Police Agency are vibe killers and can’t appreciate art,” Hoyoung laments with a sigh, looking out the window.

“What are you-? Oh, so it _was_ you!” Dongheon exclaims, grinning as he pulls away. “You did the graffiti, didn’t you?” he asks, lowering his voice. Of course it was Hoyoung. Of _course._

The blond seems to realize his mistake, because he pales and laughs nervously as his body tenses.

“What? No, no, I- I’m a law-abiding citizen of South Korea,” he says, waving his hands. “I would never do something as illegal as graffiti. I only have legal hobbies.”

“No, it makes sense,” Dongheon insists. “The cat doodle I saw you do. It’s the same style as the graffiti you did! I thought it looked familiar.”

“The doodle? What-” Hoyoung gapes at him. “ Oh my god, you recognized it just from that?”

“Yes! Your lines. They were like. . .” Dongheon pauses to draw in the air with his finger, but gives up when Hoyoung just keeps staring at him. “I don’t know! They were the same. It looked similar.”

The blond shakes his head, presumably still in shock. Dongheon laughs and opens a band-aid, sticking it to the back of the other’s leg. He pats Hoyoung’s knee to let him know he’s done, and the boy lets his leg fall off Dongheon’s lap.

“What does it mean, anyway?” he asks after a moment. He grabs another tissue and sprays it with the disinfectant.

“What does what mean?”

“The tag. The be happy,” Dongheon explains. He gently moves Hoyoung’s chin to the side so he can get a better view of the cuts. Hoyoung flinches slightly, but he blinks and settles, a light blush dusting the tops of his cheeks.

He doesn’t reply, and Dongheon thinks he’s not going to. But he sees how the blond’s eyes look distant now, contemplative, so he patiently waits for him to answer. Some things deserve more time, he supposes.

“Just a reminder, I guess,” he mutters, and despite being so close to Dongheon, he keeps his eyes down and away from him.

Dongheon hums, wiping carefully at the nicks with the tissue. He reaches for the band-aids and decides just to use one since the cuts are so small.

“I think it’s nice,” he says, finally making eye contact with Hoyoung. The blond blinks owlishly before smiling shyly, chuckling.

“It’s a bit cheesy. . .”

“There’s nothing wrong with that.” Dongheon steadies his hand with his pinkie on Hoyoung’s cheek, very slowly laying the band-aid over the cuts. He sees the color change before his eyes: the light pink morphing into something even prettier, a color similar to strawberry taffy, and Dongheon finds that it looks adorable on Bae Hoyoung.

“Cute,” he mumbles, smiling, as he takes the plastic from the band-aids and puts them on the counter.

That only seems to darken the color on Hoyoung’s cheeks, and he seems to notice because he’s quick to pull away and cover his face with a groan.

“Don’t say stuff like that!” he whines, his words muffled behind his hands.

“Why not?”

“It’s embarrassing!”

“It’s not, Hoyoung, don’t be ridiculous,” Dongheon says with a chuckle, stuffing all the plastic into the trash. He reaches for their ramen and slides one of them over to Hoyoung. “Now come on, eat. I’m sure after almost dying you’re hungry.”

The blond slowly brings down his hands. He looks over the ramen with a look Dongheon can’t name, and when he gives him a pair of chopsticks, he barely looks at him. Hoyoung opens the cup and stirs the noodles and Dongheon is about to do the same, but Hoyoung suddenly directs his attention at him.

“Thank you,” he says, and his eyes are warm, _so warm_ , and he’s smiling so softly that Dongheon is left speechless.

As he watches Hoyoung start eating, he thinks maybe there was something else he was thanking him for that wasn’t cheap ramen or band-aids.

  
  


***

  
  


When Dongheon wakes up at six-thirty the next morning, he almost thinks it was a dream. Seeing someone nearly get choked to death, saving that person, and that person being Bae Hoyoung is something that he can’t imagine ever happening. He almost thinks this little crush of his is going a bit too far, for his brain to think something as fucked up as that.

But then, when he opens his phone to silent his alarm, he sees a text from said Bae Hoyoung.

_thank you again dongheon :)_

And he thinks ah, maybe he doesn’t need a psychiatric hospital just yet. 

“Dongyoung, sweetie, come here!”

Dongheon looks to his door that he knows leads to the hall across from his brother’s room. He hears his door open and his light footsteps as he listens to their mother. There’s quiet talk, a fond laugh from Mother, and following giggles from Dongyoung. Dongheon smiles to himself bitterly.

He doesn’t hate his brother. He’s quite cute—he is five years younger than him, after all—and he doesn’t bother Dongheon too much. Really, the two of them aren’t very close. Sometimes he wishes they were, but then he sees the way their mother only seems to smile at Dongyoung, and he thinks he’ll only work up a resentment that the boy doesn’t deserve.

Dongheon sighs. He used to be angry, but over the years, the anger has burned out and died, now just leaving a cold bitterness in the pit of his stomach. Occasionally, when the night brings a little too much darkness to his room, he wonders if his mother ever smiled at him, or laughed with him, or gave him extra food like she does with Dongyoung. His memories always bring up nothing, and Dongheon always ends up falling asleep with tears on his pillow.

Still, he needs to go downstairs to leave for school. He doesn’t want to see either of them. He’s lucky his father is at work and his sister moved away a year ago, because then that’d be more people he’d have to force a smile at. He thinks Dahee would smile gently at him, an unspoken apology in her eyes, but she’s at Seoul National University earning a degree that their family wants.

Their family is not in financial trouble by any means; they have chandeliers in three rooms and a dining table that seats a dozen people. They don’t really need the money a neuroscience degree could bring in, and Dahee doesn’t have the passion for it. What Dongheon’s family wants is bragging rights. And with Dahee’s work ethic and high marks, they’re sure to get them. Already, Dongheon has heard his mother bragging about her acceptance to SNU to relatives. It only fills him with dread, knowing that as the eldest son, he has the same responsibility.

He steels his nerves, counts his blessings, and heads down the stairs with his bag already prepared. He just needs to walk out the door. Easy.

“Ah, Dongheon!”

Fuck.

“Hello, Mother,” he says with a smile that makes his cheeks ache. He makes sure his posture is straight when he faces her and that his eyes do not meet hers.

She’s preparing breakfast—samgyeopsal, Dongyoung’s favorite. Dongheon knows because their mother cooks it a lot for him. There’s soup on the stove and bowls with side dishes are already being filled on the counter. The cold feeling in his stomach hardens into ice.

 _She never made me breakfast_ , he thinks, remembering how Dahee would usually be the one to take care of him as he was growing up. Eventually, though, she got busy and Dongheon had to take care of himself. He thinks he’s about to get angry, but there’s no fire clawing at his throat and no heat flushing his face red. There is only ash and ice, and he wonders if one day there will be nothing at all.

“You had that quiz, didn’t you? For biology, was it?”

Dongheon finds it ironic the only thing she ever seems to remember about him are his classes.

“Yes, ma’am, I received a ninety-seven,” he says, and he feels a swell of pride. He’d spent ten hours studying. He found the class boring and he often got things mixed up, but he’d managed to do well.

“Ah, ninety-seven. . .” His mother trails off, and the swell of pride is swallowed by dread. Disappointment. Clear as day. “You know, Dongheon, if you want to get to SNU like your sister, you have to get hundreds like she did.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, keeping his head down. He wants to say he doesn’t want to go to SNU, he doesn’t want to go to Korea University or Yonsei or _whatever_ , because he doesn’t have the passion or the marks to get there. But he doesn’t say anything, because his opinions are best kept to himself.

His mother nods at him once before returning all of her attention to making breakfast. Dongheon stands there a bit longer, just to see how she hums to herself and mixes the soup on the stove. For a second, she almost seems like a mother.

“Oh, and Dongheon, since you’re still here,” she says, turning to him. He immediately looks down. “Could you get Dongyoung for me? He should be in the living room.”

Dongheon bites the inside of his cheek as he nods. Without giving her a second glance, he heads to the living room to get his brother that his mother so graciously made breakfast for.

“Dongyoungie?” he calls softly, standing in the doorway to the living room. It’s spacious, with a small table in the middle and two recliners and an L-shaped leather couch. There are bookshelves along the walls and a huge flatscreen TV in the front, which is now playing some sort of cartoon Dongheon has never seen.

“Dongheonie!” Dongyoung exclaims, turning in a flash and beaming at him. Dongheon feels the ice melt.

“Hi, Youngie,” he says gently. “Breakfast is just about ready.”

“Are you gonna eat with us?” The boy is looking at him so hopefully, his hair a mess atop his head. There are stars in his eyes, and Dongheon hopes they never fade.

“Sorry, bud, I have to go to school,” he replies with an apologetic smile. “It looks good, though! It’s your favorite.”

“Samgyeopsal?” Dongyoung gasps, bouncing up off the couch. He zooms over to Dongheon to hold onto his arm. “And you’re passing it up? Dongheonie~” he whines.

“Ah, Dongyoungie, I have school. It starts earlier than yours.” He carefully takes the boy’s hand off of his arm. “Now go. Eat. Mom is waiting for you, and you know how she gets when she has to wait too long.”

“What does she do?” Dongyoung asks, confused, and Dongheon has to smile bitterly once again. He sighs out a half-chuckle and looks down, straightening the boy’s uniform and loosening his tie the slightest bit.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dongheon says quietly, brushing Dongyoung’s hair to the side so it doesn’t look as messy. He looks him in the eye. “Have a good day, okay? Eat well!”

Dongyoung still doesn’t look happy, a pout insistent on his face, but he sighs and steps away from Dongheon. He gives him a wave before darting towards the kitchen, and Dongheon is alone in the living room. He looks down at the marble floors, flexes his fingers, and he thinks he understands why Hoyoung likes graffiti so much.

 _A reminder_. Yeah. He gets it.

  
  
  


The bus ride to school is lackluster. The world passes him by in a blur, and he gets tired of trying to read all the signs. It’s too late to really see the sunrise, and the sky looks overcast anyway. He can see the trees sway in the wind when the bus comes to a stop.

Dongheon steps out of the bus with some of his other classmates. The breeze is colder than he expected, so he wraps his denim jacket around himself a little tighter and pulls his mask up over his nose. It’s the middle of spring and yet the chill reminds him of winter. He looks to the cloudy sky and lets the wind tousle his hair as he stands in the middle of the decline to the school, his classmates walking around him. The moment feels heavier than it really is.

He sighs as he continues forward and into the school. He feels exhausted, and it’s the type of exhaustion he knows sleep won’t fix. It’s settled deep in his bones, hidden underneath the ash and ice, and some days he thinks it weighs him down, weighs his bones and his muscles and his nerves, to the point he might just collapse into the ground and dissolve. Today, as he looks at the linoleum floors, he thinks that would be nice.

He walks into the classroom with his head down, slipping into his seat by the window through muscle memory alone. He thinks he might just take a nap right then. He leans into his arms on his desk and closes his eyes, knowing he’s early by twenty minutes like he always is.

It’s early enough for the talk in the classroom to still be quiet. He’s finally starting to doze, the lull of low voices making the exhaustion more tempting, when something suddenly taps him.

He jumps back, startled, a scream at the back of his throat that’s only made audible in the form of an embarrassingly high squeak. His eyes are blown wide in shock, but when he sees what the cause of the tap is, he just blinks.

“Didn’t know that’d scare you so bad!” Hoyoung laughs, eyes turning into crescents as his dimple peeks out from his cheek. There’s a new band-aid and the white hoodie he’s wearing covers up the bruises on his neck. He still sees a deep purple mark peek out, but Hoyoung shifts and it’s gone.

“Ah, Hoyoungie!” Dongheon whines petulantly, slouching in his seat. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Sorry, sorry,” Hoyoung giggles— _giggles_! Holy shit!—and his smile turns a little softer. “I’ll let you sleep a little longer, then. Class doesn’t start for another ten minutes.”

Dongheon grumbles as he lays his head back down and closes his eyes. No matter how cute Hoyoung is, he’s still exhausted, much more now thanks to his little prank. But right when he thinks he’s about to fall asleep, he springs up, suddenly remembering the homework he forgot to do. He startles Hoyoung in the process, who looks like he’d been doodling again.

“What? What’s up with you?”

“The homework. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.” Dongheon doesn’t give any more of an explanation, thoughts too filled with _due today, due today, oh, fuck, Kyunghee is going to kill me._

“Did you not do it?”

Dongheon doesn’t answer, too busy searching his bag for the papers. He flings his folder onto his desk and the other folder that holds Kyunghee’s homework. He opens the two, taking out his own completed homework and looking through the other folder only to find that he doesn’t have her copy.

“Oh, no,” he says under his breath, dropping his head in his hands.

“What’s wrong? I could give you the answers if you-”

“No, no, that’s not. . .” Dongheon huffs, raising his head and rubbing his temples. “I don’t have Kyunghee’s copy. I completely forgot to get it from her yesterday.”

Hoyoung stares at him, obviously trying to understand his dilemma.

“Why would you need her copy?” When Dongheon just laughs nervously, it seems to click. Hoyoung sighs and looks at him with such disappointment that Dongheon feels worse than he does when his own mother gives him the same look. “Dongheon. . .don’t tell me you do her homework for her.”

“Well, no, okay, it’s more like I’m _helping_ her. You know, the-”

“And why, exactly, do you feel the need to help her?”

“I- well, I just. . .” Dongheon trails off, not able to make eye contact with the blond.

He knows why. He’s always known why. He offered, practically begged, because they were the only ones in the whole school who dared to even look at him. His name means money. And money is a matter of class. In the hierarchy of classes, Dongheon sits at the top with Kyunghee and Jeonghoon and Misun. He doesn’t want to be there; he doesn’t want to be feared like them. He’s not like them, and when they found out, he was no different from everyone else below them.

Dongheon was new to the school back then. His sister was a name everyone knew because she was the top of the class. So when her brother came, everyone already knew who he was. He was rich and esteemed, and that was all that mattered. He never did anything to earn that reputation, and every day he wonders where he’d be if he wasn’t born into such a family.

He was alone because people were intimidated. He tried to be friendly, but everyone always acted too polite. It was Kyunghee or no one. And Dongheon, admittedly, has always been lonely.

By the time he’d made that choice, Kyunghee had already made the discovery that he had morals. _So weak-hearted, Lee Dongheon_ , she’d said, _you have no place among the top. No place among_ us. And it was dramatic, and it was shitty, but Dongheon was fifteen and he wanted nothing more than to belong.

So in a fit of panic, of desperation, he offered to do her homework. Indefinitely. A childish idea, but it gave him the group that didn’t make him stick out like a sore thumb.

Now, for the first time, Dongheon has forgotten to hold up his end of the bargain.

“I just like helping people,” he ends up saying, because it’s easier than saying he’s a pathetic coward.

“You don’t have to help her,” Hoyoung says anyway, and the frown on his face is more concerned than annoyed. He looks away and faces forward when Kyunghee and her friends walk into the classroom.

Dongheon looks over and catches Kyunghee’s eye. Her glare is cold enough to send a shot of ice down his spine. He looks down at his desk and tries not to make eye contact with her for the rest of the class.

He succeeds for the most part. He keeps to himself and pays attention to Mrs. Yoon as she teaches. By the time lunchtime rolls around, he’s almost forgotten about his mistake.

“You wanna go get lunch with me?” Hoyoung asks, facing him as soon as the teacher leaves.

Dongheon is surprised by the offer. Hoyoung has never asked him to do anything, and really, before a couple of days ago, they never actually spoke. Dongheon would just watch the pretty blond boy scribble down his notes. In hindsight, it was pretty creepy, but Hoyoung is too pretty to not look at.

He smiles brightly and is about to say yes, but Kyunghee suddenly approaches them, and the smile is wiped off of his face.

“Dongheonie,” she says, not sparing Hoyoung a glance, “you forgot something, didn’t you?” She smiles that sickly sweet smile, and Dongheon feels his stomach twist into knots. He smiles at her apologetically.

“Ah, yes. . .sorry, Kyunghee.”

“Whatever. You can do it during lunch.” She drops her copy of the homework on his desk. “Come on. Jeonghoon and Misun are waiting outside.” She doesn’t wait for him to reply, instead turning to walk out.

Hoyoung is still looking at him expectantly, but his eyes don’t look as warm as they usually do. As they always have.

“Sorry, Hoyoungie, she-”

“It’s okay,” he says with an understanding smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You’re busy. It’s fine.” Hoyoung stands up, shoving his textbook and notebook into his bag. “I shouldn’t have asked anyway. Stupid,” he mutters, and Dongheon isn’t sure if he was supposed to hear that.

Before he can say anything, Hoyoung gives him another forced smile and he’s out the door. Dongheon looks down at his desk. He feels like he did something wrong.

“Dongheon!”

At Kyunghee’s irritated call, he’s quick to stand. It takes him a few seconds to gather his things, but he’s outside soon enough.

“Finally,” Misun grumbles when he appears.

Jeonghoon doesn’t acknowledge him at all, instead occupied with his phone.

“Where’d you go yesterday, Dongheonie?” Kyunghee asks as they start walking to the cafeteria. “You didn’t stay as long as you usually do. I couldn’t even give you my homework.”

Dongheon feels that familiar anxiety that always fizzes in his stomach in the presence of Kyunghee. She’s like a predator in almost every way—her cold eyes, her calculated movements, her complete lack of empathy or human decency. He doesn’t think she’s ever actually beaten up someone, but he’s certain she has the resources and connections to make it happen. Beyond that, though, she’s capable of ruining Dongheon’s reputation, and in turn, his family’s reputation. His family likes to brag, and if relatives were made aware of anything unsavory Dongheon may or may not have done, he’d definitely be shut away from any sort of public eye.

Suffice to say, if Dongheon were to actually tell Kyunghee where he was yesterday—chasing after Bae Hoyoung and saving his life, among other things—his family would definitely catch wind of it. Because Kyunghee is a cold-blooded bitch who cares about nothing but herself. Dongheon has been careful not to do anything that could warrant a comment to her father so far.

“I’m really sorry, Kyunghee,” he says as honestly as he can. “Something really urgent came up and I completely forgot. I’m sure I can finish it by the time lunch is over.”

“Do you think you could do my homework, too, Dongheon?” Jeonghoon suddenly asks, looking up from his phone for the first time since Dongheon joined them. “It’s for biology. It’s not too many questions, but I really don’t want to do it.” He waves his phone. “Talking to my girlfriend.”

Dongheon has to stifle a scoff. He plasters on a kind smile and nods at Jeonghoon.

“Sure.”

“Great! Thanks!” He turns his attention back to his phone. Dongheon is just grateful for the thank-you. It actually seemed genuine.

They enter the cafeteria, and immediately the casual talk quiets to whispers. Dongheon hates this. He hates the curious glances, the hushed comments, the way everyone takes several steps away from them. Kyunghee revels in it, flashing her saccharine smile to everyone, while Jeonghoon and Misun are so accustomed to it they do nothing at all.

He doesn’t usually go to lunch with them. He prefers leaving campus and having a quick lunch at a nearby cafe where he can do his homework and eat. There are too many eyes in the cafeteria at school, too much curiosity that he does not have the mental capacity to deal with.

Kyunghee, Jeonghoon, and Misun all go through the lunch line gathering food on their plates. Dongheon decides to just follow behind them silently, omitting the food despite not having breakfast. The anxiety swirling in his stomach has taken away his appetite.

If the three notice, they don’t say anything. Kyunghee is chatting away about some sort of drama, laughing at rumors with Misun. By the time they reach a table outside, they’re well into what seems to be a juicy story. Jeonghoon is still texting his alleged girlfriend.

After they sit down, Dongheon sets out to complete all the homework he’s been given. He takes out his folders and a pencil, scanning the papers and scribbling a replica of Kyunghee’s handwriting onto her copy.

“By the way, did you hear the shit about Bae Hoyoung?” Misun asks, and it’s almost a whisper, but it’s too loud to achieve the goal of one. The name causes Dongheon to pause for a second and to finally tune into what they’re saying.

“Oh? What is it? Did the fucker finally get his shit rocked?” Kyunghee says with a scoff, and it’s the first time Dongheon has heard such raw hatred in her voice. He wonders if Hoyoung actually knew what he was doing when he’d so carelessly told Go Kyunghee what to do. Looking back, though, it was pretty funny, and he still finds himself having to suppress a laugh at the memory.

“Honestly, no one is one-hundred percent sure what happened, but,” Misun leans in, “apparently, he has bruises all around his neck, like he was choked.”

“Ugh, and whoever did it didn’t finish the job?”

Dongheon bites the inside of his cheek so hard he tastes blood. He keeps his head down to keep the attention away from himself. He wants nothing more than to- to do _something_ , because the fact someone can say something like that about a person doesn’t feel right.

“I guess not,” Misun says with a shrug, leaning back. “Maybe he got in a scuffle on the streets or something. Who knows?”

“Maybe he has an abusive family,” Kyunghee suggests, and the fact she’s smiling as she says it makes Dongheon want to throw up. “Would make sense as to why he is the way he is.”

“You know what? You’re right! All quiet and cold. . .” Misun agrees, looking at Kyunghee like she’s the smartest person she’s ever met.

Dongheon doesn’t know how either of them can know anything about what abuse does to someone. To theorize about someone’s trauma, to guess it like it’s a game, is. . .it’s _sick,_ is what it is. And after just a few hours of hanging out with Hoyoung, Dongheon can confidently say that even if Hoyoung did come from abuse, or is an orphan, or whatever the fuck else that pops into Kyunghee’s head, it doesn’t matter. Hoyoung is Hoyoung, and Dongheon thinks he’s quite nice, even if he’s a bit rough around the edges.

He keeps staring at the homework. _For problems 9 - 13, use logarithmic differentiation to find the first derivative of the given function_. The words and numbers blur together as he wonders how he got here at all. He’s gotten used to the packets of homework, the bags under his eyes, the plastic smiles he gives to Kyunghee. For years now, he’s pushed himself to study till dawn, has gotten used to two hours of sleep every night, and he wonders what it’s all really for. Because when he thinks about it, it’s certainly not for him.

He can listen in class, and he can take notes, and he can work out calculus problems and read the textbook, but his head always seems to ache at the end of the day. His muscles feel strained and his eyes get blurry for sudden moments and he thinks, _What the hell am I doing?_

He remembers laughing in joy as Dahee surprised him with ice cream. _Caramel peanut, Heonie_! she’d said, _Your favorite_!

Now, on a Friday afternoon in the middle of April, Dongheon feels like he hasn’t felt the same since she started high school. He hasn’t had ice cream in years, hasn’t gone anywhere with her in longer. He wonders, just for a moment, if she would be proud of him and where he’s at now.

She’s busy and she’s stressed, and Dongheon hasn’t seen her smile since he was thirteen. They don’t text and they don’t talk. Slowly, oh so slowly, she left his life and he realizes that ever since then, he’s been aimlessly drifting in a world that’s always whizzed past him. He doesn’t think anyone else in the world knows his favorite ice cream flavor, or his favorite color, or his favorite food, or his favorite anything. Dahee was the only person who ever truly cared for him and expected nothing in return.

Unprompted, Hoyoung enters his brain. Hoyoung. Bright, warm Hoyoung.

_You have nothing to apologize for, Dongheon._

_Have you eaten yet?_

_I’ll let you sleep a little longer, then._

_You wanna go get lunch with me?_

Such small things, barely noticeable. Casual things that are to be expected. Commonalities. And yet. . .they’re from Hoyoung. He thinks they should probably mean nothing. But to him, they don’t.

Because to everyone else, Hoyoung is cold. He’s seen as someone intimidating but not rich, and that is absolutely fascinating to him. With Dongheon, Hoyoung seems to soften, and he is considerate in the subtlest of ways. He’s the only one who has never expected anything from him. Every little thing he’s done for Dongheon is because he’d wanted to. And fuck, isn’t that refreshing?

Belatedly, Dongheon realizes he blew the blond off for _this_. For rich assholes shit-talking people they don’t know. He knows he could get in trouble if Kyunghee feels the need to make up a lie that could ruin his life, but. . .well, a part of Dongheon would like to see her try. He’s never been like them, anyway.

He wants to be like Hoyoung. Free and uncaring. Painting graffiti across abandoned buildings and willing to enter a shifty alley to do it. _be happy._ Yeah. That would be nice.

Dongheon looks at the homework again and takes a deep breath. He looks up at Kyunghee and Misun who are still deep in conversation about the most recent gossip. He slides the homework over to them, knowing damn well he’s only done eight problems.

“What is this?” Kyunghee asks, unimpressed, as she looks down at the paper and back at Dongheon.

“Your homework.” Dongheon smiles, and for once, it isn’t forced. “You can do it, can’t you?”

“What? Lee Dongheon-”

“I will say, though, logarithmic differentiation with derivatives can be a bit difficult. . .” He stands up, bag and folders in hand. “Good luck, Kyunghee,” he says cutely, winking, and bows his head before turning to leave.

“Lee Dongheon! What do you think you’re doing?” Kyunghee shouts, but Dongheon doesn’t give her a second glance.

He looks to the sky as he walks. The clouds have cleared, save for a few wisps that drift silently. He sees the sun peeking out behind one, shining so brilliantly that he can’t help but feel warmth fill his body. For the first time in a long while, the weight on his shoulders has lessened.

**Author's Note:**

> will be updated weekly friday 4pm est :)
> 
> [stream get away!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CBhqNk19VQM)


End file.
